


a splendid manipulation

by graywhatsit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Choose Your Own Adventure, Christmas Party, Demonic Influence, Manipulation, Multi, Multiple Endings, POV Second Person, a sympathetic portrayal of actor here, pairings based on endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: Consider: soon after his split from Celine, Mark throws a party to get back into life, doesn't try to end it.He invites you-- the District Attorney-- and Damien.What could go wrong?----A choose-your-own-ending AU.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Mark Fischbach/Y/N | The District Attorney, Mark Fischbach/Y/N | The District Attorney/Damien | The Mayor (Who Killed Markiplier?)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 61





	1. introduction

This story is two things.

It is an AU in which Mark doesn’t try to end his life dozens of times, doesn’t isolate himself from his friends entirely, and doesn’t throw that poker night that ends in tragedy and death.

It is also a choose-your-own-ending fic.

You decide where you want to take this story. Do you want to help your loved ones? Do you want to run and forget it ever happened? Will you find love, or just some approximation of it?

You’re in control.

And…

If you try hard enough, if you have a clever eye and sharp mind worthy of your role as District Attorney…

Maybe you can find a satisfying ending.

I’ve hidden a code scattered throughout this story, and you can reach that ending.

All you need to do is remember this question:

What is a splendid manipulation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tinyurl.com/ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
> 
> (need help? find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!)


	2. a party

You aren’t quite sure what to make of all this.

Rich, famous people are _weird,_ to put it very lightly, and you were never all that comfortable around them, despite your job and location occasionally requiring that proximity; even Damien, with his outlying gentle honesty, is a bit eccentric at times.

Normal eccentric, though. Your kind of eccentric.

You were the chaos couple in university, after all. He always blushed and spluttered about it, but you found it rather pleasing.

Being with him? A dream come true, if you’re honest with yourself. There are far worse partners to choose from.

Even if your partnership extends to close friendship and running the city together. You’ll take what you can get, even if your heart aches every time he smiles at you, even if you’d be the happiest person in the world if— after one of his embraces, always warm and comforting— he decided to press his lips to your skin.

He’s still yours, just not in the way you want.

It’s not like you’re making any bold moves to change that.

So, when he invited you to a Christmas party, a real one without overt political interests, you jumped at the chance.

“A good friend is hosting it,” he explained, teasingly. “Maybe you remember him from university— Mark?”

“Mark?” You hadn’t seen him for years, not since your graduation— though you’d heard about him, and not just from Damien keeping up with him. Mark practically exploded with popularity in the early years of Hollywood, and was everywhere before anyone knew how it happened. “He’s throwing a Christmas party?”

“I know!” Damien’s face turned thoughtful. “After what happened this year, I hadn’t expected it. He’s been rather quiet since... everything.”

Everything. Faintly, you recalled it, snippets from Damien showing up to work looking haggard, uncharacteristically angry and drained. His sister and Mark, a relationship gone sour, a divorce— in these days, anathema. You didn’t blame him for going dark.

“I’m more upset he didn’t invite me, personally,” you joked, succeeding in pulling a small smile from Damien. “Who made sure he survived all those university parties?”

“Only because you took his shots for him. I don’t know how _you_ survived them, little monster.” He nudged you, only affectionately. “Perhaps he assumed you’d come, anyway, if he invited me. We always were a package deal.”

That was true. From the moment you met, you were virtually inseparable— part of finding such a kindred spirit, you imagine, not to mention your burgeoning infatuation. If Damien went, you did, and vice-versa. “He could at least send an invitation,” you sniffed. “What if I were married by now?”

His smile faded a little, and you didn’t understand why. “Would you be? If... if not for... your career, I mean.”

“I...” It wasn’t to say the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. It had, quite a bit, but the only person you’d ever imagined marrying was right in front of you. “Possibly. I wanted to be— want to be,” you corrected, “but it’s complicated. The point stands: I couldn’t go with you, then. He’s being presumptuous, and now I have to go to give him what for.”

“All according to his plan, I’d wager.” Damien didn’t seem any happier; even though his smile returned to size, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You sighed. “You’re probably right.”

The manor is massive, as one would expect, but it seems bigger than the one time you remember being here, all the way back in university. The grounds sprawl in every direction, cars lined up the drive to let out multitudes of guests.

You feel out of place immediately, even sharing Damien’s car. 

The inside only makes the feeling worse. Every room you pass through is grander than the last, with polished wood, gleaming metal, and brilliant marble. The furniture is classic but decadent, and you’re afraid that— should you step too close— you’ll break something three times the total cost of your tuition, including law school.

It’s all dressed up for the season, as well: red, green, gold, white; evergreen boughs and bells; ribbons. Tasteful, at least, but far fancier than the few bits and pieces dressing up your own home, even if you don’t celebrate.

Oh, you don’t belong here. This was a mistake. You should have just said—

A gentle touch on your upper arm stops your thought process, and you blink from your impending anxiety attack to find Damien, watching you with kind, concerned eyes.

“Are you alright, my friend?”

You don’t say anything, still too worked up, but gesture towards your surroundings. The important people, the expensive manor, the expectations... all of it.

Damien follows your hand, and, after a moment, reaches down to brush his fingers against yours. “I understand,” he murmurs, quickly soothing the shock of the touch. “It’s a lot, but I’m here for you, alright? We’re here, together. And, if it means anything—“

Those fingers brush again, and you take the chance to grab his hand. He doesn’t pull away, only squeezes.

“I couldn’t find someone half as stunning in this or any other gallery. You’ll be perfect.”

Heat quickly rushes to your face, but you can’t look away from him. How can he say something so powerful and look so incredibly genuine, all at once? “Damien.”

He grins— his version of cheeky, which is just charming enough to be devastating. “I only speak the truth, my dear. Believe it.”

“Welcome, welcome, everyone!”

The golden, sonorous voice captures your attention quickly. You know it, even if it’s changed a bit— the last time you heard it, it was edged with young-adult awkwardness, still trying to find its footing.

It matched the man, and it still does, because both have changed.

He’s perfect movie-star quality. Hair coiffed, smile big and bright, deep red suit pressed and just so. Confidence swells his chest and broadens his shoulders, lifts his head high.

Mark is very handsome, very popular, and he knows it.

You wouldn’t even imagine he’d had the year he did.

“Thank you all for coming: ladies, gentlemen— other esteemed guests,” he continues, and that acknowledgement, whether for your benefit or not, makes you grow warm, pleased. “I am so pleased that you could honor me with your attendance. This evening isn’t about me, however— it’s about us, merry-making and enjoying the best of the season. Life is for the living, friends, and so shall we live!”

A cheer goes up around the hall, and Mark descends the stairs to mingle. At your side, Damien leans in. “He’s chipper, isn’t he?”

“Whatever gets his mind off things, I suppose,” you reply, just as quietly. “And it’s that time of year. It’s contagious.”

“Like the common cold?”

You laugh, and Damien smiles.

“Well,” he says, “as he said, life is for the living. What would you like to do first?”

You look at him, askance. “You want me to choose? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I trust your judgement. And I don’t want to pressure you.” Damien’s expression softens a bit more. “I know parties like this aren’t your favorite. We’ll go at your speed— I’m just here to be with you.”

That’s damn close to a confession. You’re grateful, though, that he wears his heart on his sleeve— you can’t believe your luck at finding someone so gentle and patient, wanting to stay with you. You love him so.

_Not that he feels anything more for you._

The thought, intrusive as it is, is sharp and cold as an icicle, and deeply sobering. Of course— what were you thinking?

“I think I need a drink,” you say, weaker than you’d hoped. “I don’t think I can be ‘perfect’ without something to calm my nerves. Join me?”

“Always.” The bastard holds his arm out for you, because his compliments apparently aren’t enough.

You take it, though. Why not? “You’re being ridiculous, you know. Very gentlemanly.”

He looks at you, all false innocence as he guides you both to the bar. “I was raised to be one, wasn’t I? How is that ridiculous?”

“ _Overly_ gentlemanly.” You move your arm, jostling his as an example. “You’re never so gallant— not with _me_. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You’ve played enough poker with him to know his tells, and there’s the smallest wrinkle to his brow: Damien’s hiding something. At your skeptical stare, he finally breaks. “Alright, I just— perhaps I want to be, for once. We’re at a party where people aren’t watching us at every step, so I feel like I can.”

There’s a lot of information just in that— and yet more he’s hiding. “That was the only thing stopping you?”

“It’s a big thing,” he counters— which is quite true. Rumors already abound about your relationship, without behavioral scrutiny. “But... no. I was afraid you might think something was wrong. Like now.”

“Part of my job is noticing odd behavior. Of course I’d think something was happening.” You pause just as you reach the bar, waiting for your turn to order. “Is there? Something wrong?”

“No. No, if there were, I would tell you.” He drums his fingers on the bar— something you, yourself, do when the nerves take over. He’s copying _you_. “I only... I want us to have a good night. I want you to feel good about being here. I want you to know that I care about you. Do you?”

His eyes are serious when he looks at you, but his fingers still drum, a staccato beat similar to an old tune you’ve heard him practice on piano.

Your heart melts, and you reach to stop his fingers. “I know you do,” you reply, softly. “I already knew. You’re very good to me, Damien, you don’t have to prove it.”

_Because he’s a good man and a good friend— he’d do it for anyone, not just you._

The warmth of his smile only just counteracts the icy barb of your own thoughts. “What if I want to?”

“I guess I don’t have much choice, then, do I?” You grin back at him, teasing.

“Hey, now,” he says, swaying to nudge into your side. “You always have a choice. Life is—“

“— ours to choose? You’re like a broken record.”

“I don’t say it _that_ often. Just... once every few days, maybe.”

It’s a nice night, for the both of you. Damien follows your lead, as promised— if you feel brave enough to mingle, he’s right there with you; if not, he sits with you off to the side, commentating on life and the rest of the guests, drinks in hand.

He asks you to dance once, and only once. Not because either of your dance cards are full, but because it’s a bit of a horror show. Dancing is all well and good on carpet in bare feet, even fun, but _not_ on hardwood in dress shoes.

He doesn’t complain that you step on his toes, but he can’t hide a wince.

Once you’re finished with your brief foray into waltz, you return to your staked-out positions at the side of the room. Just before you can wonder aloud if either of you might care for another drink, however—

“Damien! And— oh, do my eyes deceive me? After all these years?”

You shake your head, a begrudging smile growing on your lips. “It’s nice to see you, too, Mark.”

Mark pulls away from Damien’s enthusiastic handshake-turned-hug to take your hand, eyes as bright and gleeful as his smile. “You’d think law school would put you through the ringer, but _you_ , my sweet—“ he pauses to dip his head and kiss your knuckles softly, “— it has been nothing but kind to you. You look wonderful.”

“Ah, thank you,” you mumble, half flattered and half uncomfortable with the lavish praise. Mark has always been a charmer, you know this, but this is a bit much— especially as he keeps kissing. Over the back of your hand, to your wrist— “Mark, that’s—“

“How _have_ you been, Mark?” Damien’s words are genteel, but there’s enough of an edge that it catches both you and Mark by surprise. “Since... we last spoke?”

Mark stands straight at that, finally allowing your hand to drop from his. Surreptitiously as you can, you pull it closer to yourself, take a small step towards Damien, and his eyes narrow. “Recovering, day by day,” he says, with a sigh. “Things aren’t always easy, but I feel I should step right back into life. The holidays shouldn’t fall by the wayside, not when the whole celebration may pull me up out of that pit.”

Damien makes this noise in his throat, one you recognize from shared political appointments: strictly polite back-channeling, without interest. You didn’t think he knew it, much less used it. “Well, I wish you luck with your... recovery,” he says. “And you haven’t heard from...?”

Mark shutters off further. “Not a word, no.”

_Poor man. What a rough year he’s had. Shouldn’t he have some company?_

The thought comes so quickly that it nearly leaps off your tongue; it’s only due to years of experience during university and law practice that you manage to keep it to yourself. “That’s... that’s awful, Mark,” you choose instead, sympathetically. “Well, I hope the party can help, as you hope it will.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Just like that, his smile returns, a little softer. “If finding you here is any indication, it will raise my spirits considerably. I have more guests to see, but if you have the time, later?”

You glance at Damien, who watches Mark with an unreadable expression— one you haven’t seen on his face before. “I, ah... Damien? If we’re free, then...?”

“Of course, Mark, of course!” Damien slides back into an easy— fake, that’s his fake politician’s smile and you love him but you _hate it_ — smile, reaching out to shake his hand again. “We’ll be around— please, attend to your other guests. Can’t keep them waiting, after all.”

You allow Mark to kiss your hand again. _He’s just being polite, and you make him happy._ A few seconds of awkwardness is a small price to pay.

When Mark finally moves on, you instantly turn on Damien, arms crossed. “There’s definitely something wrong.”

“What do you mean?” He has the audacity to look confused.

You aren’t playing this game, not tonight. “That wasn’t you. I thought I’d be a third wheel to your ‘lifelong brothers’ friendship, just like I was in university; now, you were almost hostile!

“And,” you continue, not quite done with him, yet, “you did your whole... mayor thing.”

Damien blinks, even more confused. “My mayor thing?”

You gesture at him with a hand. “You put on this persona, sometimes. Usually when we have some kind of meeting and you really dislike whoever it is you’re talking to. You get... more proper. Smile more, say what they want to hear, which isn’t you. It was like...”

The idea hits you, then. “Wait, do you— are you still friends at all?”

“Of course we are!” Immediately, his face twists, uncertain and nearly guilty. “I... I want to be. We should be, still, but something about all of that just... rubbed me the wrong way tonight.”

“Well,” you begin, uncomfortably, “it’s been a difficult year for him. He’s bound to act a little different.”

Damien crosses his arms, and you catch his fingers drumming again, that same beat. “Not that different. Talking about _his_ recovery, as if he wasn’t— and then acting that way with you? Out of everyone at this damned party, _you_? He knows better, or I thought he did.”

You frown, hurt at the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean, me out of everyone? He knows better?”

“No— wait, no, that’s not—“ He takes a step towards you, eyes wide. “My friend, I just meant that you don’t— that he’s not—“ He grunts, and you take a matching step back. “Why can’t I say it?”

“Say _what_?” Your voice is low, severe— because you’re upset. After all of his kindnesses, all of his sweet words and actions—

_He was lying to you._

_You’re a novelty to him._

_A low-class, poor joke he takes to parties to laugh at your mistakes with other people like himself._

Damien isn’t like that. You know he isn’t. He’s the kindest man you’ve ever had the pleasure and fortune to meet, and he would never—

_Then what does he mean?_

“Say _what_?” you ask again, gritting your teeth against unexpected tears. “What do you have to say to me? Please, I want to hear it.”

His mouth works, as if he’s trying to speak but nothing will come out. “I...” You watch him swallow, but don’t make a move. “I don’t think he was in his right mind, flirting with you like that. Not after Celine, not when he—“

“That’s all he does, Damien. You’ve known him your whole life.”

“Not like that!”

You finally regain that step, pointing at him. “Then he wasn’t in his right mind? Why? Because it’s _me?”_

_“Yes,_ that’s what I’m trying to say!” Damien stops, and— as if actually hearing himself— shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not what I meant, not like that, please—“

_He means it._

_He doesn’t think you’re good enough to be here._

_He doesn’t think you’re worthy of anyone’s interest._

_Especially not his own._

It’s Damien, though. Even if he’s upset you, with that look on his face, you have to give him a chance. Maybe he’s just having a bad night with words. You hope he is.

But you’re so _hurt._ “I think,” you say, as calmly as you can while trembling, “you need to figure out _exactly_ what you want to say, and _exactly_ how you mean it. When you have, you can come and find me.”

“No, wait—“

His fingers just brush your arm as you turn. While it would normally send butterflies into your stomach, a warm flush right through your core, now...

It still does, and it hurts that it does, and so you jerk your arm away and keep walking.

He calls after you. You hear it, because of course you do— after all these years, with all your affections, you’re attuned to him in the best and worst way.

It sounds like he’s hurt, too.

_He’s a politician. Wouldn’t he be a good liar?_

_What if he just wants to hurt you more?_

_You’re an adult. You don’t need him to enjoy yourself at a party._

Right. When he figures out whatever is going on with him, great. In the meantime... you’re here, at a party in one of the most lavish places you’ve ever been, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of positive strangers.

_Not completely. You know Mark._

But he’s busy at the moment. There are a lot of guests.

_But he wanted to see you again. He wanted to make time._

You aren’t so desperate for companionship as to go looking for him. You don’t need someone else, not right now. Right now, you need to be alone with your thoughts.

And another drink. It wouldn’t hurt.

As you nurse the drink— it isn’t strong, because you don’t want to get drunk, just take the edge off— and stew, you people-watch from the side of the room. You don’t know these faces, passing by in pleasant conversation, dressed to the nines in a way you could only wish to be.

You catch snippets, though, and in your poor mood, you create stories around them.

That woman isn’t here with her husband. Their laughter is too indulgent, too sincere.

The young gentleman in the green coat doesn’t want to be here. He holds his glass like a lifeline, the glint of his wristwatch just under his sleeve.

The bartender is sick of every last person who comes up to ask for a drink. Each is likely more outlandish than the last, and he has a line waiting.

To think they’re all as miserable as you’re feeling doesn’t help much, in truth. It just makes for a hall full of false faces and bitterness, everyone hiding something they don’t want anyone else to know.

_Like Damien, right?_

You take a rather large drink, fingers clenching tighter around the glass.

He didn’t hide things from you. Or, at least, you never thought he did. If he was bothered, at home, at school, at work, he’d mention it to you, even if he was just looking for an ear to bend for a moment.

You were glad to listen.

You heard when his father died. You heard when his sister left. You heard when he hated the people on the council for all of their self-service.

You never thought you’d hear what awful things he really thought of you.

... Did he really say as such, though?

Through the stumbling and false starts— things he’s _never_ done— he never said he disliked you, did he?

_What he said proved it well enough._

_He thinks Mark is insane to be interested, after his split._

_He thinks you aren’t even good enough as a rebound for someone he barely considers a friend anymore._

_He has infinite choices, but you still aren’t even on the list._

You lift your glass to your lips, only to find the last dribble of liquid and alcohol-scented air. Wasn’t it full a second ago?

Your stomach turns, though whether from drink or your swirling thoughts, you can’t be certain. With a sigh, you go to return your dirtied glass. You aren’t really thirsty, anymore.

You have nowhere else to be, and you’re still too upset and caught up in your thoughts to try and find Damien, so you find yourself returning to the wall, the little space you’ve carved out as yours for the time being. It’ll be safe until you can call for a car to take you back home.

_Didn’t you come in Damien’s car?_

Yes, exactly.

On the way, though, you look up. It’s mostly to keep from bumping into someone— _you’re making enough of a scene as it is—_ but you catch a red suit out of the corner of your eye, and you can’t help but turn.

It’s Mark, and when he meets your eyes, he lights up.

He _lights up,_ so big and bright and genuinely pleased that it nearly aches, and you smile before you realize.

“There you are,” he says, when he gets close enough. “After all of that socializing, I needed a breath of fresh air, and I’ve found one.”

You give him a dry look. “Isn’t _this_ socializing?”

Mark scoffs. “No, socializing is work. This is _fun._ ” He moves in a bit more, and you let him. “How are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”

“Well enough.” No need to worry him further, though his face falls a bit, and you decide to change tactics. Teasingly, you add, “I do have a bone to pick with you, though.”

“With me? A man who has never wronged you in his life?” Mark frowns at you, all over-dramatic and equally playful hurt. “You wound me! Whatever could I have done?”

It’s hard to keep a straight face, it really is. “Aside from several instances in university,” you reply— which isn’t entirely untrue, just exaggerated, “you didn’t send me my own invitation to this party. I know it’s been some time, but really. You didn’t even think of me?”

Unusually, he grows very serious at that. “Of course I thought about you. Since—“ He cuts off, shakes his head. “Well. You and Damien are inseparable— if I sent one to him, you’d be guaranteed to come along.”

“Really, now?”

“It’s always been that way. He always asks _you_ , invites _you_. You and him, you’re always,” and Mark sighs, something almost bitter, and you marvel at it, “always together. Tonight was no exception.”

You laugh— or, at least, huff something that wanted to be a laugh. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?” He glances away from you, eyes flicking around the immediate vicinity. “He’s just off getting you drinks, isn’t he? I’m sure he didn’t just abandon you.”

_Might as well have._

You swallow down the lump in your throat, clenching your fists. “No, we’re... something happened, and I can’t... I needed a minute.”

A gentle hand lands on your shoulder. “What happened? No,” he says, when you tense, “no, you don’t have to say if you don’t want to, alright? Come— maybe we can talk a walk, get out of this stuffy hall.”

That sounds nice. You nod, not really trusting your voice at the moment, and follow his path through the hall. Though he extends his arm, you don’t take it, preferring to keep yours wrapped tight around your middle.

The sound fades away until it’s just your footsteps on wood flooring, the soft warmth of Mark at your side against the cool emptiness of the other rooms. He doesn’t speak, just keeps a slow walk beside you.

_He’s so kind to you._

He is, when he isn’t his usual, arrogant self. Which has its own charms, on occasion.

Finally, the knot in your chest loosens enough for you to speak. “He... was acting strange. After you left.”

“ _Before_ I left,” Mark corrects, though not unkindly. He looks as puzzled as you feel when you glance at him. “He’s... very close to the situation. I imagine it affected our relationship, no matter what intentions we had of keeping it.”

“He said something like that.” Not that it brings you much relief to hear. “I don’t know everything, and I won’t pry. It’s not my business to know if you don’t want to share. All I know is he was normal— sweet, kind Damien— before, and after...”

Mark keeps quiet a moment, pausing in his steps when you don’t continue. “After?” He prompts, gently.

You clench your jaw. You aren’t going to start crying, not in front of Mark. Who knows what he’ll do?

_Care for you? Damien didn’t._

“He said— he _implied_ ,” you correct yourself, “some things. He wasn’t happy that you were back to flirting again, like you should be wallowing in misery still. He really didn’t like that it was with me— as if that isn’t just how you are with people. And even if you did mean it, he said you weren’t even in your right mind to— like I’m not— like I’m just some kind of...”

_Joke. A toy._

_An amusement._

_A mistake._

You sigh, bringing a hand up to your forehead, where a pounding headache is starting to form. “He kept saying that wasn’t what he meant, but he never said anything different. Maybe... maybe he was just having a rough night?”

“Perhaps.” Mark doesn’t sound all that convinced. “Damien is a man like any other, but he’s a practiced politician. He knows how to speak. If that’s what he said, then...”

“Then, what? That’s what he _meant_?” It’s like fire and ice at war in the pit of your chest. It’s one thing to doubt, but to have outside confirmation— your eyes start to burn. “After all these years, he just... admits that? Like he’s tired of—“

“Shh, shh, no— here, look at me, sunflower.” Gentle hands touch you, then, one on your shoulder, the other under your chin. It pushes up, until you can see Mark’s concerned— though blurred— face. “Oh, my dear... he doesn’t know what he’s done, does he?”

“I love him,” you whimper, surely sounding as pathetic as you feel. “I love him and he didn’t even care?”

Mark’s face hardens. “I’m going to go and—“

_See? He cares. He wants to help._

_He wants you happy._

You don’t want Damien hurting, either, no matter what he’s done. “No, no, don’t,” you say, feeling his warm skin under your fingers. You don’t know when you raised them to his own hands, don’t know _why_ you did, but... it’s really grounding. You blink, and the tears recede. “Don’t. I just... can we not talk about it anymore? Anything else.” 

He hesitates, watching you closely. “Are you sure?” You feel a soft brush over your cheek— his thumb. “If you want me to, I can—“

You shake your head, finally having the presence of mind to tug at his wrists, pull them down and away from you.

_Why? It felt good._

“Anything else,” you repeat, quiet but firm. “Maybe— tell me about the manor. How did you get all of it decorated on time?”

Mark gauges your expression one last time, then nods, slowly. “Alright. Well!” He turns to face towards the doorway again. “I didn’t do much, I’ll admit. Benjamin was and always has been the real champion...”

It’s nice, talking with him about nothing. His movies, your practice, all the little moments you missed since you parted ways at the end of undergrad. It isn’t like you never stopped talking— there are fits and starts, little pauses where someone isn’t sure of what to say— but it’s comfortable.

He makes you laugh, you make him laugh.

He’s a good friend, really. You missed speaking with him.

_You never should have stopped._

_But you can fix that now._

“We should talk more often,” you say, at the tail end of one of your stories. “Not just a letter or a call, either. Do you think so?”

He grins over at you, a little surprised, his eyes soft and warm and pleased. “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” he agrees. “It’s been too long. I missed you, my dear.”

You feel warm all over, and you return his grin. “I missed you, too. We’ll have to arrange a visit— my schedule is fuller than I’d like.”

Mark hums sympathetically as you turn, headed back for the main hall. “Actually, I was going to ask— if you wanted— oh.”

“Hm?” You stop as he does. “What is it?”

“There’s—“ He looks at you, then back up, above your heads, and you follow his gaze.

In the doorway is a dusky green and red sprig of mistletoe, held in place by a bright red ribbon.

Oh, indeed.

As romantic as the idea is, you never really got a good feeling from the practice, especially not at your office. You’ve gotten very, very good at leaping through doorways as quickly as you can to avoid being caught. Old lawyers really need to keep their hands to themselves.

It feels predatory, free reign for a stranger to kiss you.

_But Mark’s a friend. A good friend. Handsome and kind._

But his recent separation, your hangups on Damien...

“Well, we don’t have to,” you say, without all that much conviction.

“It’s tradition.” That’s all he says, but he moves closer, just a step or so.

You should move back. You don’t. “Yes,” you admit, slowly, “but... no one’s watching us.”

_Exactly. No one is watching._

_No one needs to know about it._

He nods, slowly, eyes fixed on yours. “Right. No one is. If you don’t want to, then—“

“I—“ You cut off your own interruption, confused. You don’t have any feelings for him, not like that. You don’t think so, anyway.

_But you could._

You know you love Damien.

_But what did he do to you?_

Tonight’s been a very bad night.

_It’s been a very bad year._

_Doesn’t he deserve this?_

_Don’t you deserve this?_

There’s a warm hand around the small of your back, one catching up your cheek, and though your hands press against his chest, you aren’t really _pushing_.

You don’t pull away, even when his gaze flickers to your lips and back.

It’s searing. You could melt under it, held up only by him.

“Do you want this?” He asks, so softly.

_It’s okay._

_He’s happy._

_You could be happy, too._

_It’s only fair._

Your head hurts so badly. What’s wrong with you?

_You want this._

_You want this._

“I want this,” you whisper, and then his lips are on yours.

It isn’t a gentle kind of kiss.

Mark kisses like he’s been waiting for this all his life, warm and passionate, pulling you against his front. It’s his palm, warm against your cheek, sliding back to curl into your hair and tilt your head. It’s the rasp of his beard against your face as he turns, too, just soft enough to stay on this side of painful.

He tugs, gently, and you gasp at the sensation sending a thrill down your back, little shocks of lightning under your skin; it’s what he was searching for, as he begins to nibble, soothing the soreness of your lips with little licks, the soft and damp drag of his tongue.

You shiver as it slips inside, teasing.

It feels like you’re drowning— drowning in his heat, in his strong hands, in his scent. He tastes like something you can’t describe with perfect clarity, something like sweet smoke and alcohol. Like danger. Like comfort.

You can’t breathe, but your fingers curl into his jacket as he moves back, a whine escaping your lips.

When your eyes finally flutter open, heart still racing, breathing still ragged, Mark is right there, forehead pressed to yours. 

He’s panting, too, and his eyes are _incredibly_ dark— ravenous, like he can’t wait to dive back in, like he can’t believe the bounty he’s found.

You swallow another whine, shivering once again.

“Oh, sunflower,” he sighs, and it’s nearly a rumble, raspy and deep. It sends a little curl of heat into your stomach. “I could kiss you for the rest of time.”

“You... you call me—“

“ _My_ sunflower,” he corrects, and your face rushes even warmer. “If you wanted to be, you could be, forever. No need to arrange a visit, no need to leave. You’ll never be hurt again. Please... stay with me?”

  
  
  


Will you [stay with him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65316892#workskin) ? (chapter 3)

Or

Will you [go back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65317057#workskin) ? (chapter 5)


	3. STAY WITH HIM

That... that sounds...

That sounds like a dream come true.

No one to hurt you with false hopes. No unrequited pining. No uncertainty.

You could stay with someone you love being around, forever. You could be someone’s.

You don’t have to think, or worry, and it won’t hurt at all.

It doesn’t. You feel _wonderful_.

You smile, and as your hands slide up and over his shoulders, arms loose around his neck, you whisper, “ _Yes._ ”

So close to yours, his eyes shine, brighter than the stars. “Yes?” You feel his incredulous laugh, just catch the wrinkles around his eyes as his smile widens. “Yes, you will?”

“I will.” And it’s all you can get out before he kisses you again.

It’s different, this time. No less passionate, but not nearly as neat— you’re both smiling too wide for anything proper, anything heated. It doesn’t matter, not when you’re in each other’s arms.

Speaking of, his arms shift, circling around your waist, and before you realize, he’s spinning you in a circle, a giddy motion that leaves you dizzy.

“Mark!”

“Oh, I can’t help it. My love,” he continues, pulling back just to look into your eyes again, “you have just made me the happiest man in the world.”

“I don’t think that requires you giving me the spins,” you tease. You don’t want to, but you ease out of his arms, looping one through his to keep close. “So, what shall we do now? Go back to the hall? Your party is still in swing.”

Mark hums. “Well, it would be a _wonderful_ chance to show you off,” he muses. His eyes track over you as he says it, slow and intense, and something hot and thrilling races up your body. He must notice, because he smirks. “But to take you in there where anyone could see you as I do...”

“I was already in there for hours,” you point out.

“Exactly,” he growls.

There’s something to that, a promise left unspoken, and that hot rush only intensifies. “Just to say goodbye, then? You wouldn’t want to be a poor host, my love.” You press in a little closer. “Then... we can find something else to do.”

You aren’t half as good as flirtation as you’d hope, but it works; his eyes darken, and he tugs you that much more into his side. “A few minutes,” he agrees. “Shall we, dove?”

Alright, you can admit— you like the pet names. Even if they are a little cheesy.

It just means he loves you.

Mark keeps you close at his side when you return to the hall, and you don’t mind. After all, you don’t know half the people he mingles with, and you catch their eye, being on his arm. It feels safe, comforting, knowing they won’t try anything, not with Mark there.

You hear your name, and you turn, surprised. “Oh, Damien!”

He doesn’t look very happy to see you, though. He keeps looking between you and Mark, brow furrowed. “Where did you go? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Talking with Mark.” You glance up at Mark, who smiles. “Catching up. It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

“Far too long,” Mark agrees, easily. “Have you been enjoying the party, Damien? I only really know this one’s version of events, so if you’d care to enlighten me?”

He isn’t talking about the party. He’s talking about—

The thing you don’t think about. Because it _hurts_.

It must hurt Damien, too, because he bristles. “It’s been... quite a party,” he replies, diplomatically, but his tone is far from it. Then, he leans in towards you. “Listen, can I talk to you for a second? Please, just so I can explain.”

“What do you need to explain? I know what you said.” And you do. Just because you don’t think about it doesn’t mean you don’t know. It doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt. “That was enough.”

His jaw works. “What did I say, then?”

Why is he making you think about it? You don’t want to remember how _he doesn’t care, how he never did, how you were just a joke to him and his friends._

_All except Mark. He never thought you were a joke._

Your head hurts again. “I don’t want to talk to you,” you reply, firmly. “You said I was the problem— how do you explain that?”

Damien doesn’t reply to you. Instead, face growing tight with rage, his eyes snap to Mark. “What did you tell them? I never said—“

“They seem to remember your little exchange quite differently,” Mark interrupts, icily. “Imagine my surprise when I find them alone, broken up by something a supposedly good friend, a good man, told them. That you don’t care.”

“I care about them more than anything!” Damien sounds... sincere, caught between his anger and something like despair. “That’s what I was trying to say!”

But that makes no sense, not after what happened.

Is that really what happened?

You grit your teeth, turning to pull at Mark’s arm. “Can we go, my love? I don’t feel so well.”

All of Damien’s anger seems to fade after that, cold shock loosening his stance. “You... what did you say?”

“They said they don’t feel well— likely because of your badgering.” Mark’s arm around you feels good: solid, warm. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—“

“No, I won’t.” Damien moves, just a few steps, to block your path. He grabs your arm, and it _hurts_ . “I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to them, but that is _not—_ it’s been a night! Less than! And I won’t stand by and watch you trick them and use them to get over Celine, because they don’t deserve that, and they sure as hell don’t deserve you!”

Tricked? Used?

You know what you feel. _Mark loves you._

“This isn’t about Celine,” Mark growls, “and that you think I’d dare is insulting. It hasn’t been a night, Damien— it’s been _years_. Let go of them and get out of our way.”

“Years?” You catch Damien mutter, and then, “No, wait—!”

You’re whisked away upstairs, out of his harsh grip, before you hear him say anything else.

Before you know it, a door shuts behind you, and you look up to find yourself in a bedroom. It’s a fine one: bigger than your living room, with rich, decadent furniture matching the rest of the house.

It must be Mark’s. There’s an implication there, but you’re too rattled by Damien’s appearance, by the slowly-fading pain in your head, to pay it much mind.

Speaking of Mark...

“I can’t believe him,” he seethes, just under his breath. “Touching you that way. Accusing me. Of all things, to think I don’t truly care for you? That I would use you?”

“You wouldn’t,” you reassure him, reaching up to grasp the hand around your shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t. You love me, and I love you.”

Wouldn’t you have said that to someone else?

Didn’t you want to?

It feels like—

_No, no, you didn’t. Only to Mark. Only ever to him._

You whimper at the brief pulse of pain, and immediately you feel hands cupping your face.

“Sunflower, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He sounds so tender, eyes soft and concerned. “I— I don’t know. I feel all turned around, confused. Am I getting sick, or...?”

“Shh...” His face tilts up, and soft lips brush your forehead. The pain fades away, as if by magic. “Shh, my dear, it’s alright. He was upsetting you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” you admit. “He wasn’t making sense, and he kept bringing it up and it _hurt—_ “

Mark shushes you once more, gently stroking the apples of your cheeks with his thumbs. “I know. He’s hurt you so badly, my love, so many times just tonight. It pains me to see you so upset.”

But you aren’t. Not when he’s here with you. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. Please, be with me. Help me stop.”

He looks into your eyes, deep and searching. “Alright. Alright, I can help you, darling, just trust me.” He leans a bit closer, until you feel his breath ghost over your mouth, until your noses brush. “Do you want this?”

[Yes?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65316976#workskin) (chapter 4)

Or

[No?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65317348#workskin) (chapter 8)


	4. YES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit sex ahead! just so you know

You don’t even need to think about it. “I want this.”

His mouth on yours feels good, and right, and it quickly escalates: warm, consuming, quick breaths and the slick slide of tongue and lips. You can’t get enough of it, moving your hands to cradle his head, pull him closer to you.

You might pull his hair, but you’re rewarded with a groan that shoots fire through your veins, lips pressing harder into yours.

His hands burn over your clothing, a grip that only grows tighter with time, pulling and grasping until—

You shudder, gasp into him, as his fingers find your bare skin.

“Easy,” he murmurs, hot and soft as he trails down to your throat, scorching little brushes of his lips over your jawline, your pulse point. “Relax, my darling, I have you.”

It’s very, very easy for him to say, without the sharp edge of teeth in a sensitive patch of skin, without sucking pressure just a second afterwards. “Nngh... Mark—“

He hums, and you feel his lips curve into a smile. “Well, if you call me like that,” he teases, and— and he _pulls away._

_“What?_ No, no—“

“I’m not done with you, yet, my love.” His hands stay on you, and he guides you back, back towards the plush bed you spotted in your earlier scan. “I’ve barely started. We’ll just get comfortable, first.”

“O-oh, that’s, ah—“

His idea of comfortable is reclaiming that spot on your neck, hands slipping under your back to help loosen you out of your clothes.

You could get used to his idea of comfortable.

Even if it is one-sided.

You’re bare before you know it, bedclothes soft and silky under your back. His hands burn where they hold your hips, tight enough to keep you in place, and you squirm under his eyes.

If you thought his look earlier was ravenous...

“God, look at you,” he whispers, eyes tracking over every last inch of you. “So, so gorgeous, all laid out for me. So pretty, so perfect.”

“Mark...” If you burned any hotter, you’re certain you’d combust, and you have to look away.

“No.” One hand comes up, turning your face back to his. “No, I want to look. I want you to see me looking. Keep your eyes on me, love, see how you make me feel.”

His thumb just brushes your lip, and you whimper. “Y-yes, sir.”

Mark grins, slow and dark, and _oh—_ you’ve done something very good or very bad. Either way, heat shoots into the pit of your stomach. “Good,” he purrs. “Very good. Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t get naked for you, to your frustration, but his mouth returns to your skin, following the path his hands take. Sharp nips along your collarbone, little shapes traced into your stomach and hips— as one thumb grazes over a nipple, his tongue licks a hot stripe over the other.

What can you do but lace your fingers into his hair, allow him to move down your body like he has all the time in the world?

The whole time, he mutters things into your skin.

“So soft.”

“So good for me.”

“All mine.”

Somehow, that makes you flush as much as his touch does.

Finally, he reaches the juncture of your thighs, and your breath catches as he nudges them apart.

“Please,” you whisper, and he looks back up at you. “Oh, please, please, Mark...”

He grins once again, that same, slow tease. “You want me to taste you, my darling? To touch you?”

His fingers inch closer, along your thigh, and you jolt. “ _Yes!_ Yes, please!”

“Oh, I can’t say no to you,” he coos, and—

You never thought a touch could spark such relief and such desire at once, but the first contact of his mouth, of his careful fingers, makes you arch with a noise you’ve never made before. “O _hgodMark—“_

An arm presses firmly over your hips, pushing down against the bed. “You taste _divine_ ,” he says, hot breath over such sensitive skin, and before you can even hope to reply, he dives right back in.

He opens you right up, beard rasping over your inner thighs, with clever tongue and tricky fingers— just the right pressure to make you see stars, squirm against his mouth in an attempt to get more. It feels filthy, feels _right_ , and you’ve never felt anything better.

Pressure and heat curl in your stomach, building with every touch, and you tug at his hair before long. “Mm, I’m going to— Mark, please—“

He gives one more lick, then pulls away from you, _again._

You _whine,_ squirming against the empty feeling in your core _. “No,_ I was so close—“

“Not just yet, sweetheart.” He leans up over you, presses his lips to your temple. Privately, you’re glad he doesn’t try for a real kiss, just this once. “I’ll make you feel so good in just a second, be patient for me, darling.”

It’s hard to be patient when he’s been nothing but teasing, and harder yet as he pulls back, something firm and hot brushing against your thigh.

It gets a little easier when he shucks off his suit jacket, though.

He’s beautiful, you think, as he continues to strip. Well muscled, with smooth and golden-brown skin, and you tell him as much.

He glances up from his fly, surprised, and he smiles. It’s charming, a little arrogant, but ultimately pleased. “And so are you, sunflower,” he replies, soft. “So beautiful. Don’t you see how you make me feel?”

You do, when he climbs over you, just as naked as you are. His cock is flushed, red and stiff and hot against your leg as he settles on top of you. You sigh, shakily.

“Are you alright?” He pauses between your thighs, pulling back just a bit to see your face.

You nod, quickly. “Yes, yes, I just—“ You reach up, careful, to circle your arms around his neck, smooth over the skin of his upper back. “I need you, please.”

“I have you. Don’t worry, dove.” One hand reaches down between you— his knuckles brush against you and you hiss— and you feel another brush of his lips against your forehead as he continues, “Relax, darling, I’m here.”

He’s done a good job of preparing you— you feel empty and wet and so ready you’re impatient with it— but it doesn’t stop the stretch and burn as he pushes inside. He’s thicker than you’d expected, or it feels that way, and you’re shaking by the time he settles deep inside, hips flush to yours.

“God,” he groans, and it’s deep and guttural, a sound you feel more than hear. “You feel...”

He doesn’t move, and you’re thankful, needing the time to adjust, but that doesn’t mean you can’t participate. “How... how do I feel, love?” You slide your fingers up, curling through the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. “Tell me.”

Mark chuckles, breathless. “Perfect,” he says, and then, “Like the highest of virtues and sweetest of sins. If I may be damned for having you, let me be, because heaven could never compare.”

Oh. You hadn’t expected that. Flushing, you duck your head to hide from the surprisingly romantic gesture.

“Don’t hide from me,” Mark warns, and then _moves_. Out.

“Let me hear you. Let me see you.” In.

“I want to know how good you feel.” Harder.

“I want everyone to know, and to know who’s causing it.” Faster.

You shudder and squirm under him, the motion already too much, building on the cooled embers of his earlier ministrations. “Mmm... Mark...”

“That’s it,” he growls, shifting his hips up and in. “Let it out, my love. How good do you feel?”

“So— ah!” You squeak as his hand moves back, pulling one of your legs up— not over his shoulder, thankfully, but higher on his waist. It just pulls him in deeper, and you quake at the new angle. “Oh, oh, god, so good... It’s so much, feels— Mark, I might—“

“Then come. Don’t be shy...” He pants into your neck, more teeth and tongue over your sweaty skin than lips. “You’re doing so well, come whenever you need to.”

You’re close, tension winding in your center like a white-hot coil, but you don’t come, not yet. You just cling to him, a thin keening rising from your chest as he sucks and licks along your shoulder, your collarbone. It stings, and you know it’s going to keep stinging, know the colors going to blossom up later on in a patchwork, a new work on fresh canvas.

You don’t mind. It means you’re his, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

You don’t come, until he shifts your other leg up to match. Then, it snaps, a rising and overpowering wave, and you wail, half muffled into his neck. “ _Mark, oh, fuck— Mark!”_

He laughs again, low and dark and breathless, as you shiver down from your crest. “And I thought you couldn’t feel any better.” His hips stutter a little before he resumes his pace. “So gorgeous when you fall apart for me. Sound so— so pretty. But you can do better, can’t you? Really tell me.”

His fingers fall between your legs, and you shudder, oversensitive. “I— I can’t, it’s so—“

“You can.” It isn’t an encouragement, it’s a statement. You _will_. “You can, darling, and you’ll feel so, so good when you do. I’ll come with you— come on, my dear, let go.”

He rocks into you softer, a little slower, as his fingers work you back up, but you can feel the strain of holding back, tremors where he’s pressed against you.

Sensitive as you are, it doesn’t take long. You shiver, whine against his ear. “Mark—“

“Me, too,” he pants, and his hand picks up speed just as his hips do. “When you come for me, tell me. Tell me— whose are you? Who makes you feel this way? Who, and no one else?”

The man in your arms, rocking into you so sweetly. The only one who loves you so much. The only one you’ll ever need.

You cry his name, open to the rest of the room, without care for your volume; mere seconds later, he moans into your neck with a full-body shudder, a pulsing, spreading warmth filling you up as he does.

You don’t care about that, nor the sensitivity as he pulls out of you, not right now. 

It isn’t as important as the sweet kiss he presses to your neck, your cheek, your temple. It isn’t as important as him scooping you up in his arms, pulling you into his chest.

“I love you so, so much, my sunflower,” he murmurs into your hair, out of breath. “You don’t understand how happy I am that you’re all mine. We’ll be so good together, forever.”

You sigh, sleepy and content, safe in his arms. “Forever sounds good,” you mumble, eyes drifting closed. “Love you, Mark.”

You hurt. Your neck and shoulders sting with bites and soon-to-be bruises; your thighs and face burn from the rub of his beard; you already feel a deep, delicious ache in your hips, almost as much from his absence as his thrusts.

But...

It’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t make you confused and upset, doesn’t make your head pound and spin.

It’s the kind of hurt that you kind of like.

It’s the kind of hurt that, honestly?

Doesn’t hurt at all.

_When I G_ **_e_ ** _t That Feeling..._

[_Try Again_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65316490) _? (chapter 1)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ne


	5. GO BACK

That... that sounds...

_Stay! Stay here and be happy! He wants you!_

But does he love you?

Do you love him?

Or are you both just desperate for something to fill a void?

_No, you do! He does! Why fight it?_

_You don’t need anyone else!_

You loosen your fingers from his jacket— though it takes considerable effort— and move your head back. “Mark, I’m not— I’m not yours. I can’t stay here with you.”

His face grows tense. “Yes, you can. You are.”

The rumble doesn’t fill your stomach with heat this time— rather, it curdles, something cold and twisting. You step back from him. “No, Mark, we can’t do this— let go of me!”

His hands are strong, stronger than you’d thought; though you struggle, it’s quite difficult to even get a step away when he keeps pulling you back, flush against his body. “No. I’m not losing you, too, I’m _not_ . I can’t. You’re _my_ sunflower, and you _can’t_ leave me!”

“Let— go!” With one final surge of strength, you wrest yourself from his arms, taking several scrambling footsteps back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Mark follows you, and with every step he takes you move back in equal measure. “Please,” he begs, the severity, the anger falling away. “Please. She left me for someone else, and now you— you have to stay with me. Please, I’ll do anything, give you anything. I would worship you, my deity, my divine ruler, if you would just stay here with me. Be mine and I will be yours.”

He’s pitiful. Truly, worthy of pity— you know the man from university, know who he could have become. It isn’t this man who reaches for you, begging for your presence.

It’s less out of fear or desire for him that you soften, and more for your friend, fallen so far. “Mark, I can’t. I love you, I do, but not...” You shake your head. “I’m not a rebound. I’m not a replacement.”

_You won’t be! You’ll be his sun and moon and stars, his everything!_

You groan, putting a hand to your head. You don’t know what the hell is going on in your head tonight, why it’s so loud, why it hurts like your skull is splitting, but it hasn’t helped anything.

“My dove? My sweet, what’s—“

You regain enough awareness to back up from his reach once again. “Don’t, Mark! I would give you help if I could— I will!— but this isn’t help. This is... unhealthy.”

“Why don’t you love me, too?”

His voice is quiet, further away, and when you look, he looks... lost. 

“That’s not fair of you to ask. There are other kinds of love, and even if there weren’t— this isn’t how it happens.” You take a breath, straighten yourself out. “You can’t make someone stay when they don’t want to. You can’t make someone fall in love with you.”

And that stings, you know it does, because it stings for you, too. You can’t make Damien feel what you do. You can’t even make him _care_ about you. Even if you could, somehow...

You wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be right, or fair, or kind. It wouldn’t be anything you aspire to be.

“It won’t happen, Mark. You need real help, but I’m not that help. I’ll reach out for you, but... I wish you luck.” With that, you turn to go.

“But it said so,” he mutters, and your blood runs cold.

You look back. “What?”

“It said it would help me! After Celine, it said it would make it go away, find me someone who wouldn’t leave, and all I could think of was you!” He takes another step, echoing behind you, and you whip around to properly face him. “I’ve always loved you! You, the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. The smartest, most skilled student— lawyer, now! You, with your grace and your charm and your kindness. You’re so perfect, and it said it would help me stop hurting, so why didn’t it work? Why does it still hurt?”

You shiver, somehow cold right down to your core. “Mark, what— what is this _thing_?”

“The creature in the shadows. In my dreams, it says— so much. It listens, and it knows, and it said you’d stay if you could just be here with me. That you’d make it stop.” He bares his teeth, his face an angry, twisted snarl. His cheeks are wet, but he scrubs at them like the tears won’t come off. “But you won’t! Why won’t you just _make it stop_ ? _Why won’t you just stay with me_?!”

And that’s where you draw the line— though you could have several minutes ago and been even happier.

You don’t try to argue or reason. Mark seems beyond that, a kind of primal anger you don’t want to be victim to. Rather, you turn tail and _run._

Mark’s cries echoing in your ears— your name, my sunflower— you run until you find the butler— Benjamin, you remember. “Please, please,” you gasp, out of breath and almost certain Mark is behind you, ready to capture you in his hold again. “I need— I need—“

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he soothes, eyes wide. “What’s— oh, you’re the District Attorney! Master Mark—“

You shake your head, holding up your hands. “Doesn’t matter! Please, just— I need to call for a car, and I need you to call... I don’t know, a doctor or something for him. He’s saying... all kinds of things, and I’m afraid for—“

You cut off, unsure if you want to say _my_ or _his_ life.

Benjamin’s frown deepens. “What is he saying, exactly?”

As if that matters! “Something about a creature? That talks to him? Can I please just use your telephone?”

He directs you there, thankfully, but he doesn’t seem so concerned about his boss talking about impossible things.

Perhaps it’s just one of those things rich, famous people do, but you want no part of it. The moment your car arrives, you head back home, lock your doors and windows as securely as you can, and hunker down in your bed.

You don’t know how you fall asleep, but you must, because you awake in pitch black night to rapid banging on your door.

It’s him.

It’s Mark, he’s followed you here and he’s ready to kidnap you and take you back to his manor, where you’ll never see sunlight again.

Or he’s going to break in and do something terrible to you— hurt you or torment you or—

Kill you.

What are you going to do?

[Fight?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65317282#workskin) (chapter 7)

Or 

[Hide?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65317177#workskin) (chapter 6)


	6. HIDE

No way. No way in hell.

Whatever primal rage bullshit Mark is hopped up on, you have no chance against. You might have fought a time or two in university, but that doesn’t make you a good brawler, just reckless, and you like to think you’ve sobered with age.

He can wear himself out on your door. You can replace a door— that’s easy, if annoying.

You can’t really resurrect. Not that you’ve tried.

You stay under your covers, trying not to move, breathing as quietly as you can. Calling for help isn’t an option, not if he’s still there and can hear.

You don’t want to subject anyone else to his madness.

Eventually, the pounding and noise fades away, but you still don’t move. You stay put, eyes on the door, stock straight in bed, until light comes streaming in your bedroom window.

Then, you get out of bed, reach for your telephone, and call in sick to the office.

Let them think you’re simply hungover. You don’t really care. Being out in public where Mark could find you is infinitely more terrifying than the not-secret of an adult drinking alcohol at a party, even if it is— technically— illegal.

It gives you time to think as you sit on your couch, warily watching the door.

You don’t know what was going on in that house, but you know it wasn’t right. You aren’t so doubtful, even at your lowest, especially of Damien. Anyone with eyes can see he adores you with all his heart— including yourself, and he’s kept that no secret from you, anyway. You wouldn’t just _kiss_ someone, either, tradition or not— you’d need a damn good reason to, and a little loneliness isn’t enough.

Damien doesn’t get so angry or flustered. He has a temper, yes, but he keeps it tightly reined in public, and even in private he’s incredibly gentle around you. He loves Mark like a brother. He can speak well to anyone about anything, the right words and the right cadence flowing freely, as though he never needs to try or organize his thoughts.

Something about last night made you both act different, and if you never set foot inside that place again, it’ll be too soon.

It’s afternoon when you hear another knock at the door, and you immediately bristle. It’s softer, less frantic, but you can’t be too sure— Mark was perfectly fine one moment, rabid the next.

Making sure you have a weapon in hand— an umbrella, just in case, and you know you should have something better— you crack open the door.

“Excuse me? I’m looking for the District Attorney— ah, their name is—“

It isn’t Mark. You drop the umbrella and open the door the rest of the way.

It’s the clerk, from Damien’s office. She blinks at you, surprised.

Yes, you know you look a mess. “Oh. I called out sick today, but I didn’t get a call or anything— did you need something today?”

“That’s... the issue.” She folds her hands, nervous. “Ah, may I come inside?”

Frowning, you back up and gesture further into your home, closing the door behind her. “What’s going on?”

“Well.” She purses her lips, as if considering her words. “The Mayor didn’t call in today. He didn’t show up at all, and I did make a visit to his home before I came here,” she adds, “but... he isn’t anywhere to be found.”

Your limbs feel heavy and cold, and you shake your head. “He— Damien— the Mayor wouldn’t—“

“I know.” She twists her fingers together. “I also know you and he are... close,” she says, carefully.

You narrow your eyes. It isn’t the first implication, nor will it be the last, but it almost feels mocking, with your true feelings in mind. “Yes? We went to a friend’s house last night, but we— we left separately. For all I know, he’s staying with him today.”

She perks up.“Perhaps I could check there, then. Could you tell me who this friend is, or could you call them for me to see? He’s a grown man, but... he doesn’t shirk his responsibilities.”

You fight the urge to warn her away from that wretched place. “It was at Markiplier Manor, so—“

You cut off at the look on her face: pale, wide-eyed, jaw dropped. Oh. A friend to you, a celebrity to others. “No, I know, but I can—“

“You don’t know what happened,” she murmurs. “Oh, oh, no— what time did you leave?”

You don’t like this. The cold dread weighing down your limbs begins to spread, forming an ice cold pit in your stomach. “I— I don’t know— ten, maybe? What happened?” You take a step towards her. “Damn it, what happened?!”

“It— it was in the morning paper,” she stammers. “A bunch of party guests went to the police station, said there was a big crash and shouting, like some kind of... I don’t know, it said domestic disturbance. Do you know for sure that he left?”

A big crash, shouting— Mark was violently angry, Damien was upset with him. You didn’t stay with Mark, but he knew you always stuck with Damien. If he realized— if he were that far gone—

You feel sick. So, so sick. “No,” you whisper. “No, I don’t, I— I have to go.”

“Wait!” You rush by her to grab a coat, stuff your feet into some shoes. It doesn’t matter if they match. “Wait, if something happened, you can’t go— just stay here, we can call ahead!”

“Go back to the office,” you order, though you’re sure you don’t have the authority. “He’s my— I have to know if he made it out. Just— go back and I’ll call if I find something.”

You rush the both of you out of the house, hardly remembering to lock your door behind you before you hurry down the street.

Mark’s house is up in the hills, far and away from yours in the valley, but through a combined effort of sprinting and hailing a cab, you make it up to the gates as quickly as you can.

Last night, they were open wide, lines of cars and people bathed in the golden light pouring from the windows of the manor. Now, they’re shut tight, and the house looks abandoned entirely.

You rattle the gate, testing it. No luck, and you don’t exactly have a lock pick handy.

Mark wasn’t prepared for your sheer determination in climbing a brick and hedge wall, though. It takes time and a lot of curses, but you eventually scramble your way up and over, landing on the other side with a heavy thud. Scraped and bruised, littered with prickles and leaves, you huff your way up to the front door.

You pound on the door. “Mark! Benjamin, whichever one of you— open up!” You pause. “It’s me. The DA. The...”

You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to do this. The thought of seeing Mark again ties your stomach in knots, makes you shake where you stand. You don’t want to give him the chance to hurt you.

But. Damien was here last, and they might be the only people who know. You have to, for him.

“Mark,” you say, sweetly as you can manage. “It’s me. Your sunflower. I know what I said last night, but... I thought about it. I was just scared— after everything that happened, I wasn’t sure you meant it, I wasn’t sure I deserved it.

“And now I’m back, because I realized: I don’t want to leave you!” You nearly choke, sick of your own cheerful, sweet act. “I came back to be with you, forever, like we want. Open the door for me, love?”

You don’t know if he’s there. You don’t know if he can hear you. For all you know, he’s high and away somewhere in the depths of his mansion, and wouldn’t care a lick even if he _did_ happen to hear.

This was a waste of your time.

You sigh, leaning against the door— only to stumble when it swings inward. You yelp, falling forward into—

Into a black jacket. Into very familiar arms. There’s a white carnation and a warm grin and eyes you’d never, ever forget.

“Damien!”

You don’t care about propriety, if you were angry with each other the last time you spoke, if you’re a mess and he’s perfect, as always.

You just launch yourself at him, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face into his shoulder. “It’s you, you’re okay, you’re safe, you’re here—“

“Hey, now,” he says, warm and soft at your ear, and you feel his hands— one at your back, one at your hair— begin to stroke. “Hey, no, I’m okay. I’m right here, don’t cry.”

You’re crying? The cloth against your face is wet, and you sniff. “I-I’m— I’m sorry, I—“

“Shhh...” He hugs you tighter. “I don’t care about the jacket. It’s a jacket. What’s wrong, my darling? What has you so upset?”

“You disappeared!” You pull back a bit to gape in disbelief. “No calls, you weren’t at work, you weren’t at home— of course I was upset.”

Damien frowns apologetically. “Mark’s power blew out last night. Too much revelry, I suppose, but that cut the phone line, too. And after our argument...” He loosens his arms, steps back. “I might have overindulged. Mark let me stay until I got my head out of my ass.”

“You still have your head up your ass,” you snap, but you can’t mean it, not when he’s _safe,_ not when more tears prickle in your eyes. You reach out for him again, and his arms slip around you easy as anything. “God, I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions— and I’m sorry about what I said before you opened the door, I just... I’ll explain later.”

“You do have a funny way of getting into places, my dear,” he teases. “I understand. No lock picks at hand?”

“No,” you mutter, and he laughs.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get my words in order. I can usually say anything to you, but last night...” Damien sighs, warm breath over your shoulder. “It was so important I said it right, and I couldn’t have messed up more spectacularly. Do you forgive me?”

You snort. “Of course I do. We were both asses last night.”

He’s quiet a moment. “...Will you allow me a mulligan?”

“Why not?” You move back, hands on his upper arms to look him in the eye. “What did you want to say to me?”

He looks at you, so soft, so warm, eyes bright as stars. You’ve seen it on him before— he doesn’t hide it from you, just laughs along when you tease him about being ‘moony’— but it feels... different, somehow. Maybe it’s his hands on your waist, the little sweeps his thumbs make. Maybe it’s just how close you are.

Maybe, with all your thinking, you know what he’s going to say, already.

“You know I care about you,” he starts, and you nod. “It’s so much more than just caring. You’re my best friend, and I love you— and I have been head over god damned heels for you since our first semester together.”

Your breath catches, a warm bubble of joy in your chest. “That long?”

“Maybe since I first saw you,” he posits, far too earnestly, and you have to laugh. “No, really. I’ve been gone on you for years, and I should have said it earlier. I was just too afraid to, until last night. Or, I suppose, until now.”

“I could have kissed you at graduation and I never knew until now,” you complain, though teasingly, and you only take a second to enjoy the shock on his face before you lean in to do it for real.

It isn’t how you thought Damien might kiss— and you’ve definitely thought about it. Maybe it’s just pent up emotion, giddiness or all the wasted time, but it’s firm and almost hungry.

It’s oddly familiar.

He chases your lips when you pull away, and you allow him a small peck before you laugh and turn your head. “We have time. You, sweetheart, just need to get back to town. They’re missing their mayor.”

“I’m missing my DA,” he counters. “Don’t I get a say?”

“Later.” You twist out of his arms, as much as it pains you, to reach out for the front door. “We’ll just tell him you got home safe, al—“

You freeze, hand on the doorknob.

There’s a mirror just inside the foyer— you saw it last night. A big, pretty, ornate thing, right across from the door.

It’s bending as you watch, little outward pulses, and when you look closer—

You. Damien’s back.

Damien’s face, terrified, fists pounding on the glass.

“What—“

The door shuts, and you feel a strong, possessive hand around your waist.

“I think we should get home. I can’t wait to spend the rest of time with you, sunflower. You'll never leave me again.”

_Actor... Impost_ **_o_ ** _r_

[_Try Again_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65316490) _? (chapter 1)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> qp


	7. FIGHT

No. No, you aren’t dying tonight, and you aren’t some _thing_ to be locked up in a pretty cabinet. The bastard can whine and rage all he wants, whatever his reasons, but you aren’t a possession and by god you’ll knock some sense into him. Steeling yourself, you grab an umbrella— it’s all you have, you should really find something better— and slowly head for the door.

You hear your name, muffled through the front door, and “Please, please, tell me you’re in there!”

It sounds like Damien.

That shocks you enough to drop your umbrella, though you quickly reclaim it. Who’s to say Mark didn’t... do something to him, too?

You don’t know, you’re just guessing.

When you yank open the door, you’re surprised to see Damien, alone.

He looks a mess, a far cry from his usual pristine self: his suit is rumpled, hair in disarray, and he looks drawn and terrified, worried creases on his brow.

You don’t think he’s going to attack you.

That is, until he all but throws his arms around you, crushing you to his chest in a fierce hug.

You nearly scream, kick and claw your way out, until you feel him. Really, stop and feel him.

He’s shaking like a leaf.

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters, words quick and quiet and shaken into your hair. “Thank god you’re alright. You’re at home, you’re safe, you’re alright. You’re here.”

“Damien?” Carefully, you set the umbrella aside as best you can, moving your hands to circle around his back. “Yes, yes, I’m here. What’s going on?”

It takes a few minutes of gentle pats and soft sounds, but his mantra finally peters out. “I— I know you’re angry with me,” he mumbles when you put some distance between you both. “I know I said some of the stupidest, most boneheaded shit I ever have—“

You interrupt him. “Hey. Hey, just... tell me what happened.”

“I couldn’t find you, no matter where I looked. I asked anyone and everyone, and no one knew.” Damien shakes his head. “I asked Benjamin, and he knew nothing, and I looked around on my own, and then— I don’t know. There was this loud crash, the lights went out, and everyone left, and I had no idea if you were still inside or not. If you were hurt or—

“And I couldn’t bear the thought of my last words to you being so hurtful,” he continues. “I had to hope that you had gone home before it happened, that you were safe.”

You have no idea what that noise could have been, and you aren’t sure you want to know. “No, I was... I was here. Ah, come inside, it’s cold.”

On the couch, you sit close. Damien’s warm, and his presence has always comforted you— steady, solid, grounding. Besides, he’s your best friend, and has been from damn near the moment you met him. You aren’t sure why you ever thought otherwise.

All of those ideas fell out of your head once you were back home. Odd.

You detail what happened after your fight: your friendly conversation with Mark, his shift into rage at the end. You leave out all the romantic aspects of your time with him, though. You have a suspicion Damien won’t appreciate the knowledge, and it’s private, besides. Not that you want to remember it, not after his breakdown. “It scared me,” you admit, “just how... angry he was. So I told Benjamin, and I came straight home. I didn’t want to stick around in case he...”

“It was a good instinct in the moment,” Damien soothes, and you feel the brush of his fingers against yours. “You can’t help him if you’re trying to protect yourself. Perhaps, tomorrow, we— or I,” he adds, at your grimace, “can check in on him. We’ll help him through it.”

“Right.” You look down at your hands, so close to entwining, and move them the rest of the way. “Damien. What did you want to say to me?”

He freezes. “After tonight, I don’t think my words are in much better shape—“

“Please?” You meet his eyes, giving his hand a squeeze. Maybe it’s superstition, maybe it’s nothing but coincidence, but the moment you left that manor, your head was clear. Maybe, just maybe, Damien’s will be, too.

He takes a deep breath. “Are you sure? Because—“

“Damien.”

“Alright.” The fingers on his free hand drum, just as they did before, against his leg. “I... I don’t know if I was actually ready to say it. If I am. I know, I know you asked, and I know I said I would,” he admits, the fingers holding yours tightening as he speaks. “I know, after that scare... I don’t want you to _not_ know, because what if something happened tomorrow? Tonight? But I worry. I worry so deeply about what might happen if I do.”

You hadn’t really considered his feelings on sharing at all. Did that contribute to his bout of poor speaking? “It’s so frightening to you,” you murmur.

Damien nods. “I know we make our choices in life, but... it scares the absolute hell out of me— whichever path I choose. What if the other path is better? What if that one doesn’t hurt?”

“I think...” You pause for a moment to get your words together. “I think it’ll hurt no matter what. At least a little. You just have to make the best choice you can in the moment, because you can’t see what’ll happen, or go back.”

You both remain silent for a while after that, letting the statement stew. It isn’t the reassurance you would want, so you doubt it’s what he was looking for, but— if anything— Damien just seems deep in thought.

“Maybe there are more choices,” he muses, quietly. “Or, a way to give you— me— more time.”

You hum an agreement.

“Will you look at me? Please, just for a moment.”

The request is soft, not demanding in the slightest, but it still surprises you enough that you do. “Damien?”

His other hand takes the one he’s already holding, a sure, warm grip, and he smiles. “I can give myself more time, because I know I’m not ready, not quite yet. I want you to know this, alright? You need to listen, and it’s the complete and honest truth. You must believe it.”

He’s remarkably intense, enough to make you a little worried, but you nod. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“I tell you this nigh-on every single day, even if you don’t know it. Even if it’s not in words. I told you in university, when I would bring you coffee during study sessions. I tell you when I invite you out because you’ve been razor-focused on a case for too long. I told you tonight when I nearly sprinted here, praying that you were home.

“I care about you, so, _so_ much, my darling. More deeply than I can really say, right now, or maybe ever.” His intense sincerity turns awkward, just a little. “Do... do you understand me?”

You think you do, and you think you understand what he means by buying himself time. Some things, no matter how sweet, can’t be shared— not in your current political positions. 

But...

Words don’t really matter so much as actions, anyway, do they? That’s where the meaning lies.

You’ll know, and he’ll know, and that’s what matters.

You believe what he says, because you knew this, already. Of _course_ you knew— how could you have doubted? It’s in the way he looks at you, moony and dreamlike. It’s in your jokes and your partnership, in the pet names and affection you’ve used right from the start. It’s in the way you feel right now, like you’d rather be nowhere but right here, on your couch with Damien.

Secrecy can’t kill it, because it’s not a secret. 

It just _is;_ as the Earth turns and the stars shine, you love each other. Simple as that.

You smile, and you’re sure it’s silly and a bit too big to really be reasonable, but... feelings aren’t all that reasonable. “I do. And I hope you do, too, Damien.”

You have to screw up your courage to do it— after Mark, some things might be difficult, now— but his flustered, pleased grin when you press your lips to his cheek is well worth it.

“Do you think, one day,” he whispers, turning his face towards yours, “we can make a different choice? The best one?”

“I don’t know.” You nestle your head against his shoulder, comfortable and warm, smiling again as he tilts his head into your hair. “I hope so.”

For now, though, in your borrowed time...

This feels like a pretty good choice.

**_L_ ** _ove, Take Your Time_

[_Try Again_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65316490) _? (chapter 1)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya


	8. NO

You know what he wants, and you wanted it, too.

Now, though, with all the confusion, with Damien, with lingering pain in your skull...

You shake your head, pull away. “No, not... not like that. Can’t we just be together, for a little while?” Your hands come up to his, wrap around from the back. “Just lie down, and hold each other, for now.”

Mark watches your face closely, though you have no idea what he could be looking for. Finally, he gives you a small smile. “Yes, of course we can, my love. We can get comfortable— a washroom is right there, and I have spare clothes.”

The smile doesn’t look quite right, but you chalk it up to concern. _He loves you— he doesn’t want to see you hurting._

For all his closeness, you nearly expect him to follow you in, but he doesn’t. You aren’t sure how to feel about that.

Misgivings swirling uncomfortably in your stomach— _why are you doubting him so much?—_ and pain in your skull, you stop in front of the mirror rather than the shower. A shower would be too long.

Too long to be naked, or too long without him?

You take a shaky breath and look in the mirror.

It’s you. Of course it’s you, the same as you’ve looked all night— dressed for the party. Normal.

You try a smile, like you do before court cases, like Mark taught you in university. Confidence, power, calm and collected.

You don’t look it, and you don’t feel it. Why?

Maybe... it’s just all of the things in your head. Yes, that just might do it— faking it until you make it only works if you have something to start with, and right now...

You don’t have much foundation.

You lean down to wash your face and let your hair loose from its style, letting the cool water soothe you as it so often does. Wash away all of those worries. Everything’s okay, _now that you have Mark._

Lifting your head up, you let the water trickle down for a moment, back down into the sink. No use in splashing everywhere.

Clear little drops. Plink. Plink. Plink.

Plonk.

Something dark and sludge-like, like thick oil, like thin tar, splashes down into the sink, a scar against the pure white porcelain.

You lift a hand to your face, terrified. What is it? Did it really come from you? It doesn’t look like blood, but it’s nothing else you can think of that might have fallen. You wipe all over, and bring your hand back down.

Smudges of thick black all across your palm, and another drop lands right in the center when you gasp.

You can’t help it— you shriek. “Mark!”

“Darling?” In seconds, he bursts through the door, eyes wild. “What happened? Did you get hurt? Sunflower, what happened?”

His hands grip your shoulders, though gently, and you realize just how badly you’re shaking. Breathing heavy, you turn toward him, lifting both your face and your hand. “What— what’s wrong with me?! What is this?!”

His eyes track over your palm, your face, but he doesn’t look horrified. Mostly, he just looks confused, concerned. “What do you mean, my dear?”

“Look!” You hold you hand higher between you, eyes and chest burning. “Look at my face! I’m— I’m...”

You turn your hand. It’s clean, if wet. The same color it always is.

“Sweetheart?”

You ignore Mark’s worried questioning to scrub over your face again, but nothing is there but clear water, starting to mix with your panicked tears. You swallow around a lump in your throat. “I— no, there was... I saw it, it was all over me. It was here!”

Mark’s face softens when you look back up at him, and he moves his hands to pull you into him, face to shoulder. “Shh, it’s alright. Maybe, with everything,” he says, though he sounds... off, “with all of your stress, with all of the upset, you’re starting to see things. It’s happened to me.”

“It... it has?” You doubt it’s the same, but you cling onto that shred of hope.

“Yes.” You feel his lips press against the side of your head, his hand stroke slowly over your back. “A person can only take so much at one time, and if it becomes too much... things can happen. I think you need to lie down and try to relax, hm?”

That sounds... good. You nod into his shoulder.

“Wonderful.” He kisses you again, then guides you out of the bathroom and towards the bed, which already has a few garments on it. “Get changed, get comfortable. I’ll be right back, my dear, I promise.”

You don’t want him to leave. “You’ll— you’ll just be in the bathroom, right?”

His hand sweeps your back, again. “Right. I won’t be a minute.”

“... Okay.” You miss his touch the moment he leaves you, but you don’t reach out again. He promised. It won’t be long, and he’ll be right back with you.

You fold up your clothes to set aside, worrying with each motion that they’ll stain black. The clothes he’s set aside— comfortable, if a bit more revealing than you would prefer right now— you pull on just as gingerly, afraid to ruin them with whatever corruption is inside of you.

But there’s nothing there. Mark said so.

You curl up in bed just as Mark exits the bathroom, belting a silky red robe. Upon seeing you, he smiles, something indulgent and warm. “Well, look at you,” he murmurs, crossing to the other side of the bed. “I never thought someone could look so adorable yet so tempting at once.”

You flush, tugging at the shirt as heat races through your skin. “Mark, not now,” you warn, softly. “Please, can’t we just—“

“I know, dear. I just couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tell you how gorgeous I think you are.” His eyes shine as he climbs up beside you, opening his arms. “Lay with me?”

You take the offer, snuggling right in to lay your head on his chest. He’s warm, solid, comforting, and his heart beats steadily under your ear. You sigh, softening into his side.

“There you go.” Fingers come up to curl through your hair, gentle and relaxing strokes. “Close your eyes, get some rest. I’m right here.”

His gentle fingers soothe the remnants of your headache, and with his warm scent, the soft sound of his heart, you drift off to sleep.

You dream of a void.

It doesn’t feel, it doesn’t look. It doesn’t sound or smell or taste.

It is nothing, and you are in nothing.

There is no air and you cannot breathe.

**Sweet little flower, aren’t you?**

It doesn’t come from anywhere. It comes from everywhere. It’s no one’s voice. It’s your own voice.

**So scared and confused.**

**You’re all alone.**

Damien hates you.

**You’re losing your grip.**

Black splashes of tar on your hands.

**You can’t be fixed.**

The heart-breaking pain going home to nothing, no one, a thankless job and bitter people.

**No one will help you. No one will save you.**

Mark’s warm, kind eyes and gentle touch.

**You’ll stay away if you know what’s good for you.**

A beast with a thousand eyes, a thousand mouths, made of the void and looking right. 

At. 

_You_.

**He can’t save you from me!**

You jolt awake, shaking and gasping, eyes already leaking tears as you sit upright. “M-Mark?”

“I’m here! I’m here.” Strong arms lay you back into a warm embrace, silk against your dampened cheek. “Shh, dove, I have you. It was a nightmare.”

You shudder, curling your fists into his robe. “It— it was a thing, a beast— it was so horrible, it looked at me with all its eyes and all its teeth and— and it said—“

His arms tighten around you, and you feel him speak into your hair. “Shh, shh. It’s okay.” He pauses— a kiss— before he continues. He sounds shaken. “I won’t let it hurt you. It can’t get you, not while I’m here. I promise.”

It didn’t like Mark. Mark won’t let it hurt you. “Thank you,” you whisper, nuzzling further into his robe.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think the creature _smiles._

_A Little Incenti_ **_v_ ** _e_

_[Try Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775310/chapters/65316490) ? (chapter 1) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as

**Author's Note:**

> tinyurl.com/_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
